Puppet Love

As a baby, Sam didn’t care much for puppets. And when I say “didn’t care much,” I mean that he burst into tears every time some creature or muppet-type face looked at him sideways. The Discovery toys stack-em set Dennis got for his first Christmas included a small fish hand puppet we called “Burpy.” While Sam giggled nervously at the site of Burby chomping happily on Daddy’s fingers, he stiffened up for a scream whenever Burby turned his guppy face his way. At two, he nervously entered into conversation with Talky the Toucan—a colourful squeaky gift from Grandma and Grandpa Ashe—but couldn’t even meet Larry the Lobster’s wee, beady eyes and so immediately sent the grey plush crustacean to live with Carter, who housed Larry’s post-boil red twin (both gifts from Jacquie).

My, my, how times have changed! This past weekend, we took Sam out to the charming community of Almonte, part of the town of Mississippi Mills, not far from Ottawa—home of the Puppets Up! International Puppet Festival. Ten troupes from around Canada, the US, Europe and Iceland spent two days putting on shows in the theme, “Telling Stories” in tented and storefront theatres on the main thoroughfare. This was the fifth annual event and as already the largest show of its kind in North America.

We spent a lovely couple of hours checking out the shows (just two—they’re long!), the street performers and the do-it-yourself kids’ puppet theatres set up along the route. Sam loved it. And we loved Sam loving it, and really enjoyed walking the town besides. The gorgeous huge post office halfway up the hill is so old that it features a special entrance for Customs Canada and Inland Revenue, which I happen to know was abolished in 1921. Plus, the quaint craft stores, bakeries and the like remind me of my retirement life as though I’ve already lived it. Recognizable somehow.

Anyways, we arrived just in time to get back row seats to what would prove to be a show in itself worth the price of admission . “The Legend of the Banana Kid: The Good, the Bad, and the Chucky” was put on by the Frogtown Mountain Puppeteers from Bar Harbor, Maine, whose reputation preceeded them given that the crowd went wild when they were introduced. They must have come up last year. From the moment the puppet TV comes on way up there on the raised stage until the last goodbyes 45 minutes later, Sam was entranced (and I giggled like kid myself).

For posterity, I’m typing out a good chunk of a review I found as a memory aid for grown-up Sam. (This is the sort of thing I can see you writing sooner or later, Sam)

“We first encounter Chucky happily watching an old ‘Girl on the Railroad Tracks’ melodrama on TV from the comfort of his couch, when his little sister switches the channels on him at crucial moments to watch a thoroughly annoying trio of teletubby-type characters bounce and sing "happy, happy, fun, fun." The irate Chucky is sent outside as his mother threatens to sell the tv set. Chucky decides to play cowboy using a banana as a gun and promptly falls asleep, only to “wake up” on the outskirts of Sueno, which is being plagued by local bad guy, Bad Bart and his henchmen.

A mysterious rider, The Man with No Name, takes little Chucky under his wing, gives him the cutest little tail-wagging, fluffy goat to ride, and inducts him into his new identity as the dreaded Banana Kid.

During the Kid’s adventures, we encounter all sorts of colourful characters. There’s loqaucious Tootsie, the saloon keeper; her permanent customer, Cleatus; a man named Sue, who finds happiness when he changes his name (to Linda); a beef-jerky loving bear; Bad Bart and his nefarious crew; and an excitable little kid who is always delivering ominous news—like “The train is a-comin!” and “Snakeskin Sam is in town!” (all 12 characters are played by 3 puppeteers)

Of course, in the end, our hero, with the help of his trusty Goatie, manages to thwart all the bad guys with his boomerang bananas; we learn the secret identity of The Man with No Name; and Cleatus gets up from his barstool.

From start to finish, the “The Legend of the Banana Kid: The Good, the Bad, and the Chucky” is just gol’ darn fun. And the finish is one of the “funnest” parts, with the puppets all taking their bows while lip-synching to Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots are Made for Walking” as the bad guys are hauled off harmonzing “Happy Trails.””

Awesome.

We also took in a crazy retelling of Jack and the Beanstalk, which was clever enough but no match for Frogtown’s talents. Then Sam joined groups of kids in two different small theatres and put on his own shows for a while before we all enjoyed a BBQ picnic alongside the waterfalls of the Mississippi River.

(Yes, I wondered about that whole Mississippi River thing, too. So I looked it up. Unlike the other Mi-SS-i-SS-i-PP-i river, whose name means “great river”—and this lil’ tributary hardly qualifies—it’s possible that ours is a corruption of another native word, Mazinaa—ziibi, which means “painted image river” in Algonquin and may refer to the native pictographs found at Mazinaw Lake on the upper Mississippi. These are the things that interest me.)

We beat it out of Mississippi Mills a little after lunch, as we were picking up Tracey & fam at the airport, but I’ll bet we’ll be back to Almonte, which describes itself as “a small town with a big commitment to the arts, and a soft spot for puppets.” Who knows? We may even move there someday.. :)

Monopoly

In the last month or so of school, we’d often arrive in the child care centre for pick up to find Sam playing Connect 4 or Battleship with his friends or one of the staff (depending on how late we were). Given that his interests in family-friendly games was growing, we figured it was a good time to add to our rather small collection and to make an effort to sit down more often to play with him. We’ve had Trouble, Perfection, and Cariboo for years—and we’ve pretty much played those out.

Yesterday, I picked up the Disney-Pixar version of Monopoly. Sure, the concepts of mortgaging yourself out of debt, raising the rents on improved properties, and calculating insurance premiums on demand are a little beyond his capabilities. But then, so is simply reading the name of the property he’d landed on. So we figure we’ll lend him a hand with the reading, math and money management this year and he’ll kick our butts next year.

As it turns out, by the time we called it a night on his first ever Monopoly game, Sam was well in the lead. He held 10 properties, had double safety cone “houses” on the orange lot—The Eiffel Tower, Gusteau’s Restaurant, and the Sewers of Paris—and had hundreds in the bank. He rolled doubles for extra turns like he was playing with his own loaded dice, and he was quick to demand his rent when his rent was due. It was so much fun to see him catch on to the object of the game and the spirit of the competition. Early on, after picking up his first two properties while his folks were either in jail or paying speeding fines, he graciously turned down the chance to buy Tow Mater’s Junk Yard. “No thanks!” he reasoned. “I don’t want to spend my money on junk.” The second time he had to hand me cash for landing there, he realized his missed opportunity. Junk pays.

Having sat down for a short demo following an evening of yard work, we ended up playing well past Sam’s bedtime. And his first question this morning was whether or not there’d be time enough to squeeze a game in today. After all, he didn’t get a chance to set up any Al’s Toy Barn “hotels” on his properties. He’s a Monopoly mogul in the making for sure. A chip off the Ashe block.

Here’s the mini album!

Sam's photo is the best of the bunch—a shot of my playing piece (Sully & Boo) passing by jail.

Sam buys his first property, the Parr (Incredible) Family home, from Banker Daddy. And he collects his first rent from Mommy...

The Water Park

During Sam's toddlerhood in Sandy Hill, we spent many long summer afternoons in our two neighbourhood water parks—the splash pad at Chapel Street Park and the wading pool at Strathcona Park—later moving to Owl Park (or Pirate Park, as he called it) when we became suburbanites, or nearly so. So much a part of his city-kid summer were those parks, that when Grandpa pulled out the sprinkler at Laddie Lane, two-year old Sam called out excitedly to Carter, "Wookit! A water feature!" As hectic as it could sometimes be chasing after mischevious boys, I loved our time there: our little camp in the shade, complete with picnic blanket, snacks and drinks, towels, pull-ups, sunscreen, wet wipes, dry clothes ... the list goes on—honestly, I don't know how I fit it all (plus the boys!) in the wagon.

In the last year or two, we've managed just a handful of picnics at Brewer Park, where the two-level water pads complete with a high-powered canon is only part of the attraction—Sam spends as much time on the play structures as he does enjoying the water. Maybe the fact that he's in swimming lessons now and so heading to a real pool once a week is part of the reason we've not been out to the wading pools. But I think it's really just a vague sense that he might better enjoy something else. Now that Anabel is two, however, and we're looking for activities all the kids can partake in, we've renewed our interest in visiting some of Ottawa's 56 outdoor pools this summer.

When Jacquie was in town, we spent a fun afternoon and pizza picnic at Pebble Park, the kids moving back and forth between the large wading pool and the play structure. And yesterday, we logged three blast-from-the-past hours at Strathcona Park, enjoying some play time in the shallow splash pool. In this shot, Anabel and Sam are playing catch while Carter swings in the background. The kids "dove" for rings, sailed Titanic excursions, and repeatedly climbed in an out of the pool with a beach ball (chances are you can line each activity up with the right child). We took a break to feed the ducks on the river, but otherwise the kids paused their pool play only to reapply sunscreen or slurp another juice. It was like old times.

I couldn't help pseudo-spying on some of the moms who were following close on the heels of their little ones—making sure they didn't run along the pool side, that they shared their toys nicely, that they kept their sunhats on, that they were happy. I looked at their packed strollers, their little camps in the shade, and I appreciated their efforts in a way I don't remember appreciating my own. It's wonderful to be out in the park with your toddlers, of course, but it's also an exhausting undertaking—the packing, the vigilance, the lessons, the care. Looking around the pool, you can see that it's all about the kids. Every ounce of effort is about making the day a good day for them.

Sitting in the shade for a few minutes on my own, I felt the difference between this visit and our last. Sam now moves independently between the "ruins," the swings and the pool, capable of park play without a hovering mother heading off any number of potential catastrophes. Oh, he still includes me, taking me on pretend sea voyages or asking me to watch how far he can throw bread crumbs into the river. He trusts that I'm still fully available to him, still interested in his every move. But he no longer needs me to stick close by as he ventures nervously through the water. And he doesn't need help doing up his sandals, getting the straw into his juice box, etc.etc. I'm a want, but not a need.

As I watch Tracey trail along behind Anabel (making sure she doesn't slip, that she's sharing pool toys, that she keeps her sunhat on...) I realize I'm okay with leaving the "arm's reach" stage behind. I take the phrase from the wading pool rules: parents of non-swimmers and young children must stay within arm's reach. Me, I can sit up the hill a ways, enjoying the antics from a slight remove. It's nice, this relaxing of effort. Still, it's telling that this is my favourite photo of the day. The boys are sipping juice on the picnic blanket, waiting for the attendants to re-open the pool following a chlorine treatment. True, their focus may be elsewhere, but they're still very much a part of our little family camp in the shade. In so many ways they don't yet understand, they couldn't do this without us. We're still making great days for our kids. It's what moms do.

Of Mommies and Mummies

Jeremy had to get some work done this weekend, so he dropped Sam and me at the Museum of Civilization on his way to INAC. I'd wondered if Sam would lose interest before our day was done. He'd seen the Children's Museum a few times before, but he's never been let loose in the other areas. Four hours later he had to be pulled out of the Journey through Canada's Past in order to be ready for pick-up. I shouldn't have been surprised to find that he loved it all.

We started with the IMAX film, "Deep Sea," which was absolutely astonishing (and narrated by Pirate Captain Jack). We huddled in our reclined seats, head to head, whispering about the jellyfish, octupuses, crabs, sharks, anenomes, and sea turtles. Sam started out declaring "I wish nothing had to eat anything else in the sea," but became so caught up in a starfish's hapless quest for food that he revised that position, "It's sad that things get eaten, but it's sadder to be hungry!" Ahhh, the circle of life. That's a tough one.

We spent the next hour in the Children' Museum, hitting all the interactive highlights: loading cargo onto a ship, performing shadow puppetry, building a brick wall, shopping for baguettes, spelling our names in heiroglyphics, making "photos" of ourselves at the ocean. We took a break from the hectic faux marketplace to enjoy a picnic (a March picnic!), taking advantage of a sheltered spot on the stairway to soak up some sunshine and chat about what to see and do next.

After lunch, we headed for the mummies exhibit, which was tucked away in the lower level. Sam ran ahead to ask for directions of a boutique operator: "Is this the way to the Tombs of Maternity?" He suppressed a smile in answering, "Yes, the Tombs of Eternity" are right around the corner. We zipped through some of the early rooms, featuring bits of pieces of the tomb's architecture and artifacts. Sam was there for the dead people. We slowed to take in the display of jewellry, clothing and the like, but the show stopper was the room containing the sarcophagi and the mummies themselves. Sam was fascinated. He did the Disney double-check ("They're not going to walk or move or anything, right?") before moving in close to have a look. When we stepped back into the hallway, he looked about and said "I don't think this is part of the exhibit..." When I explained that we'd done the whole thing, he turned on his heel, declaring "Well, I'm not done." So we went back in through the out door to watch the educational film about archeology and re-examine the highlights.

Then it was on to the Great Hall and the First Nations exhibits. Sam was in his glory. "Will..you..take..a..look..at..this," he breathed, when we came across a room of carved masks. A good deal of the exhibit is presented in child-friendly dioramas, so it felt like being on a west coast reserve, which made Sam want to step into the action. He set off a number of motion sensors, but no one came running. We worked our way up to the top floor and wandered through hundreds of years of Canadian history, several actors stopping Sam to ask if he'd like to join the lumberjacks for dinner or if he owned the fancy house in Toronto. He played along gamely, then (once out of earshot) confirmed "They're just kidding, right?"

And just like that, four hours had evaporated and it was time to go. Passing a kiosk on the way out, Sam spotted jelly totems and floated his usual "but we're not allowed to have those. We're not here for treats. They probably cost too much dollars" thing he does as a way of sort of asking for something while acknowledging that he's well aware of the argument against sticks of stale sugar. I surprised him by giving him a $10 bill. He asked me to keep my distance, so he could line up and pay himself. He handed in the money and walked away, all proud of himself. I forgot to tell him about the change...

I'm liking this museum thing. It's fun to watch Sam's interests and vocabularly expand, his sense of history become a little more detailed (his look of surprise at the fact that Egyptians packed tombs with food and drink so that the mummies had something to munch on during the journey to the afterlife was priceless). And I enjoy being in the moment with him in a way I'm not when we're home together. Jeremy just walked by to ask what a membership costs. This might be the Museum Pass summer.

A Little Piece of Navan

I’m always surprised by how quickly we find ourselves ‘in the middle of nowhere’ when we head off in search of some rural destination or another. Two quick rights from Tracey’s driveway and we’re soon skirting the boundaries of farm fields, marshes and forests—the cityscape fast disappearing in the rearview mirror. Ten minutes into the trip and we’ve slipped back in time to enjoy a little tour of pre-industrial Canada. Because once you’ve swung onto Leitrim Road and passed the community centre and the Canadian Forces station, there’s no there there. It’s countryside plain and simple, and it’s lovely.

Entering the nearby town of Navan last Saturday did little to destroy the time-travelling flavour of the drive. The welcome sign is carved in wood and proudly proclaims that the town was the site of the astounding “Fifty horse hitch.” Fifty horses on a single hitch, their lead reins nearly 170 feet long, were paraded down the quaint main street and into the world record books. In this very town. As we made our way towards the fair grounds, promising the boys that the heavy odour of fresh hay and fresher manure would subside, I realized that the past we had entered was my own.

This is Erin, circa 1982. The same small Irish village turning itself inside out to host a weekend fair, the same three long-time Lion’s Club members working the ticket booth, the same muddy assortment of John Deere and Massey Ferguson tractors lined up behind the agricultural buildings, the same cheesy glitz and laughter on the midway. Tracey felt it too, as she heaved Anabel’s stroller across the rough muddy tracks left by a horse trailer, jokingly calling the boys “city kids” as they screwed up their faces in disgust at having to pick around the ‘road apples.’ It’s a familiar scene to a pair of small town girls, but their children don’t know from rural fairs. We need to get them out of Centretown more often.

We let the boys have the run of the midway for an hour or so, following them from ferris wheel, to giant slide, to pirate den, to house of mirrors, to spinning strawberries. Carter even braved the Dragon Wagon rollercoaster, while Sam staunchly defended his right to sit out. They watched in slack-jawed awe as the big kids screeched their way through the startling drop zone ride, the speedy polar express, the gravity-defying tilt-a-whirl. Not this year for these two. Not next either. Much as they like to try teenager mannerisms on for size lately, declaring with conviction that they’re 18 years old, they look very much their age as they weigh their midway options and head for the cute stuff.

After a nice break in a shady playground on the edge of the fairgrounds, we walked back through the thick of it, explaining to the boys that the grown-ups wanted to see the exhibits. I loved that stuff in high school—the arts and crafts, the student projects, the baking, the prize vegetables. The sight of those ribbons pinned to the best in class still twists me up with irrational excitement. It’s nuts. I expected the kids to humour us, but they had a blast. Look at the scarecrows! Look at these bird feeders! Look at the Lego sets. Look! Look! Look! They ran circles through the exhibition hall and Anabel toddled after them, caught up in their excitement.

We’ve long been meaning to do the fairs, but they come early around these parts, with most towns staging them by Labour Day weekend rather than waiting for Thanksgiving. By the time my inner voice whispers “fall fair time,” we’ve missed out. But we’ll pay more attention now. It was nice to spend the afternoon out of the city, to participate in farm-based community events, simple celebration, and age-old fun that is all wrapped up in a small town fair. It’s the first time I got a strong sense of “Ontario,” as I know it, from anything connected to Ottawa. I like sharing that with Sam. Maybe next year we’ll catch the demolition derby, too.

Winterlude 2008

We've had more than our fair share of winter this year, but we had yet to add much in the way of "lude" to the mix, so we all bundled up last Sunday and headed out into the sunshine for the festivities. First things first, we hooked up brunch at Elgin Street Diner (there ain't no Sunday morning outing in Centretown without stoppin' in) and then Jeremy dropped me and Sam at City Hall and went in search of some downtown parking. Winterlude draws 650,000 visitors to Ottawa each year, but we're never sure where to put their cars. Happily, most people don't know that the Armoury quietly permits Winterlude parking alongside its Mess Halls. Nice soldiers.

The sights and sounds of the Crystal Gardens at Confederation Park had Sam skipping ahead, shouting out his recognition of the logo: "I had that sign at my Snowflake Kingdom!" He went on a school trip to the ice slides at Jacques Cartier park last week. His first order of business here was to "find the singers." It took us a bit to realize that the loud music coming over the speakers was a recording, not a performance. Sam was disappointed. Apparently a big fan of Aboriginal throat singing. So we began a tour of the park. The big fountain had been converted into a novice competitors' ring, with perhaps a dozen craftsman participating in a 4-hour ice sculpting event. Sam surveyed the sites and settled on the "unicorn without a horn" as his favourite. It was a swan, actually. In fact, there were four swans being created in the ring: must be on the cover of the Beginner's Guide to Ice Sculpting.

After a bit, we toured the large finished pieces produced by professionals the world over. Canada made a strong showing with an amazing open-jawed T-Rex skeleton. We all cast our votes for the People's Choice right there, though some of the other work was awesome, too. Sam's excitement grew from sculpture to sculpture, and he offered an enthusiastic play-by-play for the crowds around us—describing each exhibit and rhyming off which ribbons it had won, then moving on with a gushing "Oh, look at this one!" He mugged for the camera throughout, silly boy.

After looping the park a few times, the last round on Daddy's shoulders, we took a break by the fire and Sam snacked on the traditional Winterlude fare of maple beavertails and hot chocolate. Happily, a musical performance began in the Ice Café – a trio from the Yukon called The Roots Sellers, who did a fun kind of rap meets Celtic Reggae sort of thing. Sam was right up there on stage, stomping and clapping to the beat, enjoying the group effort of trying to shake avalanches of snow off the café awnings. Was pretty sweet to watch. We stayed for four songs, made another slow lap of the park, and then headed for the car.

We passed out of the park and across the Armoury grounds in the wake of the applause-o-meter voting for the best quick sculpture. From what I could tell as the sounds of Winterlude died in the distance, the crowd favourite turned out to be the unicorn with the horn. You can see how the magic wins out.

Written and Illustrated by Sam Ashe Arnold

The Bears' Spooky Night

Once there were four bear friends. They went in a spooky forest and they saw animals coming out of the smoke. They saw a lion. There were also bugs in the spooky plant. They were scared.

The bears went on a special truck that took them to a spooky house. It had a fireplace that was just like Sam's, but it also had a fire in it. They go through the fire and up the chimney, but they don't get burned.

The bears well back to the ground. Then a big spooky chair came walking up the street. The bears climbed on, and the chair brought them home.

The bears were back in their cave.

The end.


The Ghost Adventure

The children and the grown-ups were ready to get their warm clothes on for the ghost adventure. Once they were dressed, off they went to the front yard. The kids were so excited they jumped off the stairs.

They ran down the sidewalk. These guys live in Sandy Hill. They saw one! But it was just a baby. Then its parents came through the door.

The ghosts stared down at them.

The end.

Inuksuk 2: This Time, it's Personal

So we're putting in a dishwasher (insert mom's squeal of delight), which means ripping out and relocating Sam's 3-level craft cupboard. Wow, there was a boatload of stuff in there. We're swimming in crayons, markers, coloured paper, stickers, pipe cleaners, crepe paper, glue sticks, elastics, cardboard rolls, bits of ribbon, sequins, and foam shapes. In short, everything required to make a rocket. And then more rockets.

We'd also collected a "let's do this later" miscellany, including colouring pages from bike or fire safety campaigns and itsy bitsy kinder-egg puzzles. While sorting through that stuff this week, I came across a small give-away we picked up on the Winterlude Ice Sculpture tour at Confederation Park: a 'build it yourself' mini cardboard Inuksuk. Sam was enthralled. We punched the pieces out and carefully assembled the icon. Then I read him the little info card provided by the Department of Indian and Northern Affairs, explaining the cultural significance of the stone marker to the Inuit.

A while later, I found myself eavesdropping on Sam's play, all smiles that he was repeating bits and pieces of what he heard in a kind of solemn 'voice over' fashion as he marched Inuksuk down the length of the couch: "The Inuksuk is used to show hunters the way home .. and sometimes to warn of dangerous places... and sometimes to mark where food is stored..." Just look at my little erudite boy having fun with this venerable symbol of the Canadian North.

Then, with that shift in tone you hear in movies to dramatize the alternate personality taking over the dominant one, Sam continued in a slower and deeper voice: ".... but that was in his childhood, when he was a superhero. One day, a FRACK of rocks fell on Inuksuk (sound effects of pummelling and horror), and he was turned into a Rock Man. He fought his enemies (sound effects of thrashing and pain) and beat them. When they tried to fight back, he turned into liquid rock!! (sound effects of molten transformation) and no one could touch him. If they tried, they were burned alive! (sound effects of people melting in agony). Inuksuk was angry that was made out of rocks and he blamed it on the people and that's why he fought everyone he could find!!"

Ironically, the info card is called "Sharing a Story." Ya. Sam heard your story. Then he took your 4,000 years of Inuit cultural history and pimped it with a dash of Fantastic 4 and the Batman villain formula. He likes your story better now. Inuksuk may have "become a symbol of leadership, cooperation and the human spirit," but when 4-year old boys play mythmaker, there's gonna be shape-shifting fisticuffs and mayhem. I should have started with the coyote and raven tales.

Sam-san, "Crotty" Kid

Sam is now officially a force to be reckoned with, the newest “crotty" kid on the block. He signed up and suited up at the Bergeron Karate Centre last night, where Carter has been a member for a few months. Sam had to mull it over, weighing the pros and cons of involving himself in an activity that is simultaneously cool art, cool sport and cool self-defence. In the end, his worries crystallized thusly: “What if everyone else has an outfit, and I don’t?” I thought he might be concerned about performing for his sensei or not keeping up with the tip-earning progress of the Little Dragons group. On the contrary, he needed to know he’d fit in fashion-wise…

So there he is in his cool “gi,” looking the part. The class started while he was still trying to tie the thing up in 4 places, but he came scampering out of the change room to join the “courtesy, discipline, respect” bows-in-progress with an air of such entitlement and capability that I was teary with pride before he even introduced himself to the instructor. From the get-go, he was unusually (for him) engrossed in the training: he didn’t so much as glance at us for at least 20 minutes … and we were sitting 5 feet away. After that, he shot us only occasional looks of happy self-satisfaction, a smile that seemed to say: “I’m nailing the high block, hey?”

Our son was, in fact, almost unrecognizable. Where’s the boy who hangs back from the group and loses interest within minutes, finally wandering away to do something on his own? Sam-san is clearly here to learn. He wasn’t fazed in the least by being the only newbie. He half-fumbled his way through most of the stretch exercises and the motions of ready position (instead of quickly crossing his arms across his body before firing them out and down, he pounds his chest like a dominant ape - it’s pretty cute). He never lost confidence, even mouthing along while the boys around him counted off their sit-ups in Japanese. And his comfort level with the instructors was made obvious by the fact that when it was his turn to walk the circle in “Ninja, Ninja, Turtle” (the ancient Chinese equivalent of “Duck, Duck, Goose”) he turtled his sensei and raced him back to his seat.

At times, his supreme efforts to mimic the sensei made us giggle. When the boys were posed together in a faux photograph and asked to stay perfectly still for 10 seconds (an exercise in discipline) the group was a stony tableau, right up until the instructor slowly raised an imaginary camera to his face to take the picture. Kneeling in the disciplined front row, Sam mirrored his actions precisely, lifting his own camera to his face. You could see the cogs working: “Copy the tall one. Copy the tall one..”

The sharp learning curve aside, he’s already showing signs of sheer genius, of course. Just try to strike a super-slo-mo kitten blow to the side of his calf and watch the block, baby! (actually, the block is delivered in a relatively respectful and subdued manner; it’s the follow-up high five, powered by pride, that has the quality of agile attack). But who knows how far their initial interest will take Sam and Carter? For now, it’s a lot of fun to watch them jump into something so eagerly. And in such cute outfits.

It's All Greek to Sam

We live at the point of “high tide” for the annual Ottawa Greek Fest: if there are a row of cars parked out front on any given night, then it’s a full house up at the Hellenic Centre. The neighbourhood has been a crowded parking lot these last few days, and the whirling sounds of Greek festivities have been a Siren song through the open windows, inviting us to “live a day the Greek way.”

So we took the kids up there after dinner (have you seen the food tent line-ups?) and numbered ourselves among the 70,000 people who come out every year for the fun. With Trace and Anabel looking on, Sam and Carter and I joined the Greek folk dancing lesson. Easy-peasy: hold hands, head counter-clockwise and 1-2-3-left kick, right-kick, and again…1-2-3..” We’re dancing! The boys really wanted to join the large circle of grown-ups and big kids, but I knew that we’d end up in a pile on the ground when the music tempo picked up. So we spun around outside the official circle, Greek dancer wannabes tripping over each other and laughing to the beat of the music. Opa!

Then the organizers cleared the floor for the Cretan Association, who demostrated several national dances in colourful traditional dress that Carter roundly denounced as being “not real: that’s not how dancers dress.” Ain’t no MTV. After a minute or two of looking on, tho, he asked if he could run up and join them. When we explained that this part was a performance and not a lesson, he announced: “um, ya, I wanna go now.” “Me, too!” Sam piped up. Too loud for him suddenly. Just stand and watch? Bo-ring…

So we wound our way out of the crowd in time to meet up with Jeremy, Paul & Siobhan coming out of the food tents, trays laden down. We found seats near the blow-up bouncy castle jumper and 25 foot high slide ride and took turns lining up with the excited boys. Sam soothed his "younger" cousin's fears with the classic "I'll be right there with you, Carter." One trip and they were hooked. They repeatedly rope-climbed up the slide and came barrelling down the steep incline, shrieking. How marvellous of the Greeks to give us slide rides. Coins? Maps? Democracy? Shrug. The hypotenuse in slide form? Now that’s an impressive cultural achievement. Props to Pythagoras.

As the sun set, we all enjoyed some gargantuan baklava, let loose our grips on the blue Greek fest balloons, sending them soaring into the clouds, and then ambled home for bed with sleepy and satisfied kids. I think Plato had it wrong when he said that it is the good and beautiful things in life that are hard to attain; that was actually pretty easy. The trick now is getting Sam to go to sleep despite the tantalizing sounds of the not-so-distant festival drifting over the neighbourhood.

Gather Ye Rosebuds

While I puttered among the shady greenery of my flower gardens on Sunday afternoon, Sam played “Beach,” a game that consisted of periodically moving his new Power Rangers towel around the lawn and then curling up on it like a contented cat to bask in the sunshine. I snapped a quick pic from the deck, catching my beautiful potted plant in the frame. My heart smiles at both elements of the picture: at Sam’s cuddly adoration of that beach towel, and at the sight of our backyard filling with colourful life as spring warms to summer. And I silently thank my sisters again for these thoughtful gifts to mark Sam’s 4th and my 40th birthday celebrations. They’re perfect.

I’d been busy all day, moving among the pleasant tasks and appointments of garden shopping, brunch with friends, walking the dog and the like. Sam had cheerily accompanied me through it all. But after viewing this snapshot in the digital camera preview screen late in the afternoon, I put aside the last of my yard work plans and crawled up alongside my son to enjoy some rest on the beach. Sam was thrilled to point out the imaginary lapping waves and circling gulls for me, and I pointed out for him the burgeoning tulips and spreading ground cover. Together, we gained a heightened appreciation of the magic of our own backyard. Did I stop to smell the roses? Damned straight. Forty year olds have these things figured out. (thanks, Sisty Uglers, and thank you, too, Sam I Am) ...

The S and the A and the M

Sam threw the front door open tonight to exclaim, "Guess what I did at school?! I did the M! I did the S. I did the A. I did the M!" He's been signing his name on his art work for a few months, but that last letter has eluded his talents so far, coming out as something of a stylish squiggle--perhaps suggestive of the signature to come. Today, however, Sam mastered the M. Attached is the evidence of his latest accomplishment, complete with a captioned picture of his Dad & Mom holding hands. Let me deconstruct the genius for you.

The 'MOM' is pretty easy to spot. Check those M's. The symmetry, the sharp angles, the ebb and flow of purplish pressure. A thing of beauty, that first ever MOM to emit from the artist's pen. Now, the 'PAB' to the right of that is "DAD." Scholars and practitioners the world over agree: D's are hard. This is a brilliant effort. Under these bold titles, there are two near circles: his parents' "funny heads" (to quote the artist). Beneath those is a horizontal line of arms, joined by the symbolic slash of two hands. Simple, forceful--a poignant interpretation of connection, significantly clasped over the semiotic symbol of son. As if to balance the composition, the other arms are casually rendered in loose vertical lines. The adjacent series of vertical lines are, of course, legs. Note the artist's exceeding care not to extend PAB's legs into the first letter of the already signed masterpiece, an obvious allusion to a father's protective care of his child. Finally, the chocolate smudges here and there are from leftover ice cream cake. A metaphorical assertion of the artist's childlike trust in his view of the world. Plus, he'd just eaten dessert.

All in all, a delicious little picture.

Brought to you by our S-A-he-did-the-M.